


Of Chainmails and Strings

by Meysun



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Childhood, Durin Family Feels, F/M, Harp - Freeform, Love, Mother-Son Relationship, Music, Self-Doubt, Training, Young Thorin Oakenshield
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-10
Updated: 2016-08-10
Packaged: 2018-08-07 22:18:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7731847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meysun/pseuds/Meysun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet conversation between eight-year old Thorin and his mother.<br/>About training, worthiness, and childhood, and - as so often - about love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Chainmails and Strings

**Author's Note:**

> This is a little one-shot that I scribbled down on a rough sheet of paper, already weeks ago, and rewrote just now. Because I love little Thorin. And because I love his mother, that I hardly ever mentioned in my two big fics, but that is playing a more crucial part in Thrain's story "Dashatê". Because I miss my mother, and cannot wait to see her again - and because she is the one shaping my Dwarrowdams, even though she won't believe me.
> 
> Right now, I am not writing my main-stories, simply because life is just too full. I am at a crossroad - almost finishing my residency with a lot, lot of guards, and my PhD to write in the meantime. And I do not want to write "unpolished" chapters for you, but "Dashatê" and "The King of Carven Stone" require a peace of mind and a time I do not have right now. I hope to be able to fix that soon... maybe mid-August, and hopefully mid-September. Please do not think I forget you in the meantime. Because I don't.
> 
> And Guest... so glad to have you back. I have really really missed you. And I promise to try and release a little one-shot soon, about Thorin, his nephews and one of his rings.
> 
> Much love to you all ! Take care, Meysun.

**Of Chainmails and Strings**

  


  


“ _'Amad_ , am I big enough ?”

Bára laid down her quill, lowering her gaze towards the cradle where her second son was sleeping peacefully and faced her eldest, who was currently gazing up at her, his eyes bright and his dark locks tousled and curled with sweat.

“Big enough for what, _thunbelê ?”_

No bead, in her son's unruly hair. No hair-clasp either. And yet the tips of his tiny booted feet were already iron-clad, and his training tunic damp from his lesson's exertions.

“Dale. I want to go with ' _adad_.”

Bára sighed. Thorin had ever been obsessed with the city, and she could not blame him. But eight was no age for a Dwarfling to be outside the Mountain, no matter how hard her son strived.

“I fought against Dagur. And Balin, ' _amad_. They said I did well. They said I was getting good with a stick. I am big now, ' _amad_.

\- Yes you are, _thunbelê_.”

She bent and picked him up, pulling him on her lap, placing her hands below his armpits and lifting him effortlessly, until his small weight was settled on her knees.

He was growing indeed.

Thorin had never been a chubby baby or a fat toddler, but her little boy's cheeks were loosing some roundness, as he was growing tall and slender. His hands were still so soft, though. They were small, though nimble, with dimples on their back Bára loved to kiss.

“' _Amad_...”

But though he protested as she raised his tiny hand to her lips and kissed the inner part of his wrist, she soon heard him giggle, and moments afterwards his little body was pressed against her chest while his fingers trailed down her collar beard.

“Can I, ' _amad_?”, Thorin whispered, almost reverently, and she huffed at his hair, rubbing her nose against his head.

“Yes. Begin.

\- _Ze'. Nu'. Gem. Ramekh_.”

Thorin's fingers were touching each bead carefully, his face frowning in concentration as he was mouthing the numbers almost like praying words. Eight years was too young an age to be out of the Mountain, but old enough to understand Khuzdûl was not to be voiced lightly – and Thorin was taking that command very earnestly, just as earnestly as almost everything.

Writing, his hand slowly getting surer. Reading – both Khuzdûl and Westron, almost fluently. Learning verses and poems by heart. Fighting – and how Bára's heart warmed and ached witnessing just how much it mattered to Thorin, to become as skilled as his ' _adad_ , as strong as his grandfather and King…

Taking care of his brother, as well. They had soon found out it was the surest way for Thorin to believe he still mattered, that he was needed and useful – and more than once Balin and Thráin had been forced to repress a fond smile at Thorin meeting them at the door of their Halls, his little body upright and his gaze bright and grave.

“No loud words. ' _Adad_. Balin. Frerin is sleeping.”

And dreaming.

Somehow Dale would never leave his mind. There was hardly a day where Thorin would not mention it, to the point that Thráin had been forced to chide him, crouching down in front of him, placing both hands on his shoulders and telling him firmly there was _no way_ he would take him there. The respite had been short indeed…

Bára tilted her head so as to lean into her son's touch, and listened to his voice as he counted. From one to fourteen, very quietly, his fingers trailing through the soft hair of her collar-beard.

Seven beads for each one of her sons.

It had always helped to calm Thorin down. Focussing on the beads in her hair, kneeling on her lap, sheltered in her embrace. She could almost feel his heartbeats slow down, and the pent-up energy his fighting sessions always helped to rouse give way to softness and quietness.

To peace.

“Perfect, _thunbelê_. They are all there.”

Thorin just nodded. His head was leaning against her shoulder now, one of his hands still tangled in her hair while the other was resting against her back. Lightly.

So very lightly…

“I love you”, Bára whispered quietly, and she watched her son's lips stretch slowly in a soft, very private smile.

A few blissful seconds, before it vanished.

“I am so small, ' _amad_...”, Thorin let out, and there was a grown-up sadness in these words causing her to tighten her embrace around him. “I have no chain-mail. They are too heavy. I tried. I tried, and I could not move. I tried, ' _amad_. I almost fell. I could not move my arms. It made Dagur laugh.”

There were tears in her son's eyes, now. And Bára knew they had reached it. The truth of Thorin's very question, that never-ending quest for worth and approval that was both the blessing and the bane of Durin's line.

“Why do you think he laughed, _thunbelê_ ? Why would he laugh at you ?

\- Because all warriors wear chain-mails, and I do not. If I cannot move in them… it means I am too small. It means I am…

\- It means you are brave. It means you have will. It means you tried. _Thunbelê_. My love. My wonderful little warrior. How do you think your ' _adad_ started ? How do you think _I_ started ? Not with iron. Never with iron. Leather first, _thunbelê_. Leather, until your bones get stronger. Until your body gets used to that additional weight, and moves as gracefully as ever.

\- But I _have_ been wearing leather…

\- Yes, my love. For the past month. And you are doing so, so well. But your bones cannot grow in one single month. They need time, and care. To adjust, and carry your weight proudly. No Mountain has risen in the blink of an eye, _thunbelê_.

\- But he laughed.”

Thorin had voiced the words very, very quietly. It had always been like that – in this he was his father's son to the bone. True hurts reached deep, took ages to be coaxed out of him, and Bára knew she had to watch out carefully for her son's quietness, rather than for his outbursts.

“Because he _loves_ you. Because he cannot believe you tried, even though you were almost sure to fail. Because he already knows what a fine warrior you will be, and just laughs out in pure joy.

\- You just say so because you are my ' _amad_ …

\- No. I would never do such a thing. I tell you, when you are missing a note, or playing the wrong rhythm, do I not ? I am not blinded, when I look at you. But I confess…”

She bent towards him and gently rubbed her nose against his hair.

“I confess, _thunbelê_ , that I dearly, _dearly_ love what I see...”

She was smiling, now, and soon found her smile mirrored on his lips. Thorin's arms shifted, circled her chest and he squeezed, tightly, until she squeezed back.

“What about some music, now ? Do you feel like playing ? Do you want me to show you how we can make it rain, upon Dale, upon the Mountain… even upon the Lake if you feel like it ?

\- Can we ?”

Thorin's eyes lightened up, and he pulled back to gaze at her, his body quivering with anticipation.

“Won't we wake Frerin, ' _amad_ ?

\- Oh no… We won't. The sounds we will make are soft. It will help him dream…

\- Yes. Let's make him dream, ' _amad_.”

She soon had him seated on a small stool between her legs, and sat down behind him, slowly pulling her harp towards her shoulder, letting it rest there so as to carry its weight, while Thorin was still able to embrace it so as to play on the higher strings.

“So. Remember this is rain. The drops are drilling the Mountain, falling against stone, and they do not stop.”

Softly, with her left hand, Bára plucked two strings, over and over again, until it looked indeed like rain, until Thorin raised his hand so as to try and do the same.

“Very good. Exactly like that. Keep playing.”

And as her son obeyed, his small fingers plucking the strings, on and on, as regularly as he could, and so, so earnestly, Bára raised her right hand and played the melody along, feeling her son breathe out in awe and pleasure as she disclosed the notes to him.

“Beautiful...”, he whispered, and she bent down to kiss his head.

“It is. Keep playing...”

And they did. Thorin's left hand carrying on steadily, while Bára's right hand danced and flew, drawing rain, sunshine and wind straight into the secrecy of their Halls. And Thorin did not even notice his right hand was entwined in hers, and that Bára clasped it, very tenderly, watching her son get lost in his music, forgetting about training grounds and chain-mails.

 _Let him stay safe_.

She would have him happy, and confident. She would make him a _míthril_ shirt, be it only to see that smile linger in that face she loved so much – to make her boy believe in the amazing Dwarf he would become.

She would charm raindrops and songs, stories and moonshine straight into his room, into his mind, into his very Soul, just for one of his precious smiles.

And when that night, she had him undress, and crawl under his blankets – tired and spent, but comforted and still dreamy-eyed, Bára felt his arms around her chest again, forcing her to bend.

“'Amad?

\- Yes, _thunbelê_ … ?”

His body was so soft. So perfect. Just like their very first seconds together, where it had seemed to Bára she had reached a full circle, and had nothing left to wish for.

“I love you too.”

There was nothing left to wish for.

  


  


**Author's Note:**

> Neo-Khuzdûl translation :
> 
> \- Thunbelê, Khuzdûl for "my little thunder of all thunders" [Bára's nickname for Thorin].


End file.
